Two white men stood at the front of classroom, asking for her,
mispronouncing her simple name. Their ties were so tight at
their collars their heads seemed poised to pop. They were official
muscle, like no men she had ever seen. In a city essay competition,
she had used words she wasn’t supposed to know—not her, being
nappy and sparse, not her, living with just one parent, like just one
leg. Not her, in that two room on the west side with rat scurry and
no place to buy fresh food. Not her, black like she was.
The white men from the city asked for her and her teacher,
wide-eyed, just turned her over. The little girl hung her head and